Little Indigo
by ongreenergrasses
Summary: A story about those who die. And those who are left behind.
1. Not Compulsory Reading Material

**This is an old, old fic of mine. One that I was going to post forever ago and due to a plethora of issues, hadn't gotten around to actually, you know, posting it. Now I'm off to do a cheesy sappy old rant (hi, sentiment), so you can skip ahead to the actual fic portion if you want. But do know that this fic is dedicated to someone for a very, very good reason.**

**Today I received news that one of my earliest Internet friends, haveacreamteaonme, died. I got this news two months late. And it broke my heart. It fucking broke my heart. I felt horribly useless and stupid and rather disgusted by the fact that I had been such an arse and not checked her Tumblr to see if something was wrong sooner; that I hadn't sent my consolations to her family; that I hadn't talked to her for almost two months before this tragedy came to pass.**

**This woman. I can't even go into it. Honestly, every single person that reads and reviews my stuff or just reads or just PMs me or just ANYTHING is precious to me, and she was no exception. She started leaving me reviews during a bit of my life where my perception of everything was really quite colossally skewed, where I was doubting everything and making some terrible choices and doing some incredibly stupid things. She reassured me that someone was out there reading my stuff and that they thought I was doing a good job of it. For shy, naïve past version of me? That meant a lot. **

**She wrote one of the most incredible fics I've ever read. She took it down because she thought it was taking up too much of her life, and that, I think, was a tragedy in its own right. Because she was truly one of the most phenomenal writers I'd ever seen. I had no idea she was so ill; we just carried on shrieking over crack and Sherlock and all things wonderful. She never mentioned it. Not. Once. **

**I'm not going to say I knew her well because I didn't. We never wrote huge in depth messages to each other, not really, and we only talked for about four months. But I owe my writing, my love of Sherlock, and very possibly my existence to her. I was so depressed – still am, but it's okay now – and she was the first person I talked to that truly helped me. Simply because SHE WAS LIVING. She was a person living their life and when you are depressed like that, there is nothing (I think) that gives you more hope than seeing someone just live their life. **

**I have no idea what her real name was, where she lived, what her favorite color was, or anything like that. All I know is that haveacreamteaonme died of cancer two months ago. She was 26. She was one of the most passionate fangirls I've ever met, and she was one of the few people I've met that truly seemed happy. As odd and ironic as that may sound. **

**So after that long, sappy rant that is actually longer than the story I have written out for you guys, I dedicate this fic entirely and wholly to her. Rest in peace, luv. You lived in your lifetime. And not many people can say that. **


	2. The Actual Fic You Wanted To Read

**In case you skimmed over that entire rant - this fic is dedicated to haveacreamteaonme. She died.  
Written to "Black Dresses" by The Spill Canvas (thanks to raven612 for the song rec)  
Disclaimer: I thought that I had control over my brain. Nope, sorry, I don't own the few neural pathways I'm allotted. It would be socially irresponsible for me to try and own anything else.  
Warnings: Ummm…well, this is after Reichenbach. Sherlock comes home. Finds out that his absence brought some changes.**

People don't understand.

They don't think. They don't see.

They don't realize how it hurts. How it always hurts inside a head that doesn't have room for everything it tries to carry.

He deletes. He preserves what is relevant, he destroys what is not, and it is all methodically calculated.

He has to delete things simply because there is no room for them. Inside his head is a mass of swirling ideas, half formed thoughts, questions with no answers. He is always so close to breaking. One thing too many and he will shatter, spinning out of control. This he knows for sure, not from theory but from experience. It has happened. It will happen again if he ever dares slip. So he doesn't.

He is not a freak. He observes and catalogues, every minute of every day. He sees. He is not a freak. Everyone else is just stupid. They're all just wrong. They don't know how to manage their little tiny brains. Honestly, to think that the fate of an entire world rested in their hands!

He has to admit that people did get one thing right, though.

They never tried to label emotions. Not really. Oh, they gave them names, but those names were nothing but a formality. They didn't use them. All they did was feel. They felt those emotions, felt them in full swing, and then they kept them and preserved them and only after years of reflection did they hand out the labels. Whereas him? He doesn't bother with emotion in the slightest. He needs everything to be precise, scientific, and emotions are not. So he deletes them. It is all so simple. Feelings pop up. He tries to catalogue them. He ends up failing. They hurt him. And just a few hours later, everything has been deleted. It's a vicious cycle.

It's been imperfect. And messy. But it's worked until now.

The emotions he felt previously were so small they could be easily deleted without a glance back. This is not small. This is massive, devastation on a worldwide scale as he stands looking at the grave.

He didn't think he could feel like this.

He lied to himself. Told himself he'd come back before John could come to any harm.

John didn't come to harm.

Harm found him.

It was an easy death. So easy. So mundane.

Too mundane.

He doesn't know the truth. Nobody does. Nobody knows if John Watson, M.D., killed himself or really did just trip in front of that cab. It's plausible, yes. But not probable. Not John. John wouldn't be so clumsy. John wouldn't make that sort of mistake. Not his John.

Emotions. There are so many of them. It's a childlike wonder, this. He marvels at how he can feel so much, how he has the capacity to feel like this.

Sherlock does not cry. Ever. He was only five years old when his father taught him how weak crying really was. He never dared shed a tear after that. He doesn't think he's crying now until he looks down and sees the spots on his scarf, little indigo islands in a sea of royal blue. Clouds spreading across an already darkened sky.

This emotion could bring him down. Drag him, shaking, to his knees. There is no name for this. It's not grief, nor rage. This is too much for his mind to handle, and yet far too much to ever consider deleting. It is going to shape him. It is going to change him. Emotion. It is nothing, nameless, labelless. He can't touch it or sort it into a category or put it in a room in his mind palace. And yet it is everything, every piece of pain and darkness he's ever known hewn into one knife that is stabbing thousands of gaping wounds into his chest as he stands in front of the little, inconspicuous grave.

He's never known how it feels to be broken before.


End file.
